


absolute zero

by thewildwilds



Series: the colors of the season [2]
Category: Dangan Ronpa, Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Coming of Age, Coping, Dehumanization, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Kuzupeko - Freeform, Memories, POV Alternating, Pre-Canon, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 06:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8478247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewildwilds/pseuds/thewildwilds
Summary: She swears she is nothing but a sword, a shield, a cog in a machine.
Peko Pekoyama. The name of the girl who became a tool.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It is recommended that you read the first part of this series, [mason jars](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7914157), before you read this one.

The car ride through the mountains is silent and oppressing.

Master Kuzuryuu sits to her right, arms folded, back straight. Though she is only seven years old, she is old enough to know when Master Kuzuryuu is unhappy, and right now is one of those times. To her left is a man she doesn’t know, dressed in a nondescript black suit. She sits in between, arms tucked in are far as she can manage so that she does not accidentally brush against either man.

The view outside the window looks so much like the woods where she and Fuyuhiko were stolen away. Nothing but mountains and trees as far as the eye can see. Her first instinct is to panic. She doesn’t want to go back to that dark and scary place, filled with the smell of blood and something foul she couldn’t name.

The car stops in front of a lone cabin. It is not the same as the other one, but she does not let herself relax just yet. The driver opens the door for Master Kuzuryuu. The man to her left opens his own and grabs her out of the car. He pulls her towards the cabin, paying no mind to the way she struggles to keep up with his long stride.

She stumbles through the doorway when the man shoves her in. Master Kuzuryuu follows after her. There is a table in the center of the room. He stops near one of the chairs.

“Sit,” he commands.

She looks warily between him and the table, and climbs into the opposite chair. He does not sit in his seat until she's in hers.

Master Kuzuryuu pulls a cigarette from his breast pocket and lights it. The acrid smoke burns her eyes and aggravates her throat, but she stifles the urge to cough. Even in silence, she dares not cross him. Here is a man with an empire upon his shoulders, and he carries the weight with effortless, herculean strength.

“Have you ever wondered how you came to live with my family?” he starts, rolling the cigarette between middle and index finger. She is silent. “It’s because your parents abandoned you, left you for dead by a dumpster in the rain. Do you understand? By luck, it was one of my men who found you and brought you to our care. It was out of the goodness of our hearts that we decided to raise you under our roof. But in this world, nothing ever comes for free. We feed you, clothe you, pay for your every need. It is time you begin to repay that debt.”

“Where are we?” she whispers.

He ignores her and continues on. “You see, child, you were never meant to be a human being. Your fate was sealed the moment you left the womb. Your existence was never guaranteed. Your parents made that clear when they left you to die in the cold. Who else in the world would want you as you are? You should count yourself lucky that we took you in at all.”

“Why are we here?” she asks again.

He throws her an icy glare, a sharp reminder that Kenichi Kuzuryuu is not a man who will let a little girl take control of the conversation. “My son was nearly killed because the two of you decided to do something so foolish. Whose idea was it to leave the house after dark?” She sucks in a breath and shrinks beneath his gaze, trying to appear as small as possible like she thinks she can disappear. “Whose was it?” Master Kuzuryuu presses.

She is silent for a long, long moment. Then, in a small, trembling voice, she whispers, “Mine.”

He takes a long drag from his cigarette. “I don't think there's any question why you're here.”

He flicks off a bit of burning ash. “We hadn't intended to start you off this young. Clearly we expected too much. But no more dawdling. Your repayment starts now. You are going to stay here and learn your duty as a tool. You are a _thing,_ understand? Not a girl or a human. We will teach you that. You’ll become a hitman for our clan. A deadly weapon for my son’s use. You are his property. You will kill in his name so that his hands remain clean. That’s always been your fate.”

Wood scrapes against wood as Master Kuzuryuu stands from his chair.

“I want to go home,” she whimpers.

“That's not your home anymore,” Master Kuzuryuu says. “It never was.” He takes another puff of his cigarette and blows a perfect ring of smoke. “You have 90 days. Don’t disappoint us.”

 

 

 

The colors of the early morning paint the sky deep oranges and pinks as Bennosuke Miyazaki drives through the mountains in his old sputtering pick-up truck. The paths are narrow and poorly lit, only illuminated by the scant morning rays, so he takes his time, one arm hanging out the window lackadaisically. This may be the last time he’ll get to drive his truck for the next few months, so he tries to enjoy it while he can. The truck bed is packed with enough provisions to last them—him and his new student—the entire season.

But in all his 54 years, Bennosuke has never dealt with a student like this.

He arrives at the cabin a little after five o'clock. He dismisses the junior yakuza tasked with standing guard overnight. For 90 days, it’s going to be just him and the child.

If it weren’t for his partnership with the Kuzuryuu clan, he imagines he would’ve been living on the streets long ago. (Perhaps he would’ve become a Buddhist monk. The thought makes him chuckle.) Swordsmanship is a dying art, a noble profession eroding away in a rapidly growing technological country. Even modern yakuza use primarily knives and guns. Needless to say, it was a surprise to him when Kenichi Kuzuryuu made the call for his services. He wonders why they had not chosen to train her in marksmanship and modern warfare—something more appropriate to the times—instead.

He supposes he already knows the answer.

The girl is awake and sitting on her bed, knees drawn up to her chest. She has dark circles around her eyes as though she hasn’t slept a wink. He forgoes introductions in favor of unpacking the boxes of supplies. Pots and pans, soap and buckets, pillows and linens, all the essentials amid the heap of training swords and practice targets. There is much to do.

His first order of business is to set up the sparse kitchen so that he can make breakfast. They have enough rice and produce to last them for the whole season, but he’s brought only the minimal amount of protein. If they need meat, they could go hunting or fishing. No eggs, they spoil too easily.

The girl remains silent the whole time.

After he finishes cooking, he sets the food on the table and sits. The child sits across from him, staring at her lap. He sips delicately from his soup and regards the girl before him with a curious eye. He’s taught children before, but never one so small. No signs of early muscle development, no outwardly astonishing features. Not even a clear fighting spirit.

This is the future tool for the Kuzuryuu family, the one who had a sword placed in her crib so that there was no question as to what she was going to become. She is lesser than him, lesser than the junior yakuza, lesser than even the servants, and yet he is expected to teach her how to wield a sword like a demon.

She has yet to pick up her chopsticks.

Gently, he pushes the bowl of rice closer to her. “You must eat,” he says.

She makes no move, eyes fixated on the old wood grain of the table.

“If you do not eat, you will have no energy to wield your blade.”

Still she stays silent.

Bennosuke sighs, picking up the extra pickled plum with his chopsticks and placing it onto his own plate.

In the end, she only eats a few bites of rice.

 

 

 

The table is cleared away, the bowls and plates replaced with a single paper and pencil. He returns to his seat and, for a moment, simply studies her. The girl barely moves from her spot.

“What's your name?” he asks, tucking his hands into his sleeves.

She speaks for the first time. “Pekoyama. Peko Pekoyama.”

“Spell it for me.”

She picks up the pencil and writes the characters with an unsteady hand. Pekoyama. Boundary. Mountain. The archaic characters of her family name are a curious sight, but it's her given name that surprises him the most. Peko. _Pe_ and _ko_ written phonetically.

Bennosuke purses his lips into a thin line. Peko. Nothing more than a series of sounds that hold no meaning. No doubt this is the work of the Kuzuryuus, a convenient solution to make the hassle of paperwork and legal documents that much easier.

He folds up the paper and pockets it.

“I am Bennosuke Miyazaki. I will be your teacher, you may address me as such. By my hand, you will know the art of the sword.” He looks her up and down. “I take it you understand your reason for being here?”

Her doleful red eyes turn up to meet his and for a second he’s taken aback. _Yes,_ say her eyes and _No,_ says her heart. She knows what she must do and she does not want it.

But he is not here to give the child what she wants. He is here to teach her how to fight, to defend. That is his purpose. Nothing more.

He stands. “Training begins now. Let’s go.”

 

 

 

Beneath her bed, she finds boxes filled with her belongings. Robes and shifts and underwear. Socks and shoes, all in her size. She was not the one to pack these up, and whoever did must have done so with the understanding that she was going to be staying here for a very long time.

She is tasked with many of the chores. Her teacher takes care of the cooking but she must do a majority of the cleaning. Much of it is familiar to her: beating out the bedsheets each morning, washing and hanging the laundry, scrubbing the floors on her hands and knees. But there are other things that are unfamiliar, things that sharply remind her she is far away from home. _(That's not your home anymore,_ Master Kuzuryuu's voice hisses in her ear.)

Gathering and chopping firewood are a necessity; there is no electricity in the cabin. She is awkward with the axe, sometimes needing to chop at the logs three or four times before they properly split. Cleaning herself is another matter. To wash, she must either draw up enough water to fill the metal tub meant for laundry or bathe in the river where the water is freezing. It takes too long to heat up the kettles.

It is humiliating to occupy the cabin with a man, knowing she must be in various states of undress with neither a wall nor a divider between them to hide her modesty. At the Kuzuryuu estate she would change or bathe with the other female servants. Mistress Kuzuryuu is adamant about all members of the household maintaining dignity and traditional values, even the lowly servants.

The thought of her fellow servants gives her pause. Ayumi, Michio, Kaoru, Mizuki… They are perhaps the closest thing she could call family, even if they scold her, even if they sometimes refuse to meet her eyes. And then perhaps that would mean the head maid, Inoue-san, is the closest thing she has to a mother. She is old and strict, always threatening to take away her mealtime privileges if she does something wrong, but there are times when she has been kind. Like a mother, perhaps.

Master Kuzuryuu’s voice buzzes in her head again like a deeply rooted parasite. She is alone. Abandoned. Discarded. The clan’s kindness is all she has left, and whatever family she may long for, they don’t want her back.

_Family._ So strange. So foreign. She certainly knows what the word means, but she does not know what it means _to her._

It’s funny. Even if it’s a feeling she’s never truly known, she finds she misses it with an intensity she doesn’t feel for anybody besides Fuyuhiko. It is better to let these feelings go before they hurt her further. As always, Master Kuzuryuu was right. Mother. Father. Family. She can speculate all she wants, but these are words she’ll never understand.

She hopes Fuyuhiko is doing all right without her. They’ve been together for as long as she can remember, and to be apart from him for so long feels strange and empty. Sometimes she wonders how a boy who cries so much could be next in line to a yakuza clan. For a boy so small, he is so full of emotion and passion that she cannot help but admire the extent of his honesty. He wears his heart on his sleeve and she thinks that’s why she likes him so much.

She hopes she can see him again soon.

 

 

 

The first few days are only an introduction to the basics. Bennosuke unsheathes his sword and holds it up to the light. “Look at this. What do you see?” Her eyes flit back and forth between him and the blade, a twinge of concern creased in her brow. “Some see a force for good, and some see an unspeakable evil, but neither of these are so. The sword is nothing but a tool, an inanimate object that holds no purpose of its own. It is for the wielder to decide what that is. Protect who you must protect. Cut who you must cut. That is the original purpose of the sword. Not only will you learn how to wield a blade in its truest sense, but you will also learn the art of mental presence and immediate reaction.” He sheathes his sword again. “But that is a lesson for another time.”

The Pekoyama child holds a practice bamboo sword in her small hands. (The bamboo sword is as much for his own safety as it is for hers. He does not yet trust the child not to slit his throat in his sleep.) Her fingers barely wrap around the handle and her knees quiver as she holds it up in front of herself.

He beckons her forward. “Now. Come at me.”

She hesitates and shakes her head. He calls for her again, but she is resistant, rooted to the spot.

He appraises her fear, her anxiety, all the things that would make a person weak permeating every inch of her skin.

With a flick of his wrist, he draws his sword and charges at her, a warrior’s yell erupting from his throat.

She _screams_ and falls to the ground as she staggers back. Her eyes squeeze shut and he _slashe_ _s—_

—He stops the blade just inches from her face.

“First lesson. Never let your guard down,” he says, keeping his sword where it is. “In this world, you will be facing more than just people with swords. You will be facing people with knives, guns, and much, much worse. They will take every opportunity to end your life. _That_ is what happens if you do not take yours. That is what makes the difference.”

The girl’s chest heaves up and down as she sucks in big gulps of air. Her face is pale and her eyes are wet. The bamboo sword lies forgotten at her side. (And she hadn’t even thought to use it to defend herself.)

He straightens, flicks his sword to the side and sheathes it at his hip. “The sooner you learn what you came here to do, the sooner you can return home. Let's try it again.”

 

 

 

Sleeping is a strange affair. By bedtime, the servants quarters at the Kuzuryuu estate are normally covered in futons, mattresses laid out end to end to end, not an inch to spare upon the tatami floor. Everybody goes to sleep at the same time, and everybody awakes at the same time too. Yet here in her very own bed—without the sweltering heat, nor the tangle of duvets, nor the incoherent mumblings of her roommates—she feels oddly uncomfortable.

She sleeps for handfuls of hours at a time, startling awake at the smallest sound. The groaning of the cabin walls. The rustling of her teacher shifting in his sleep. The howling that could very well belong to a hungry wolf in the distance.

Sometimes she awakes in the middle of the night with the need to relieve herself. The woods get too dark, and she is too frightened to run outside where the outhouse is, so she sits in her bed with her blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her thighs squeezed together until sunlight begins to peek through the clouds. Only then does she rush to the outhouse before she soils herself.

 

 

 

On the sixth day, he tries to teach her the importance of meditation. Stepping into _seiza,_ left hand over right, thumbs tip to tip. The focus of energy at the center of the body. It is not enough for her to be physically strong. She must be mentally strong as well. Swordsmanship is a balance of mind and body, the joining of two streams into one ocean.

They kneel by the riverbank where the water gurgles and rushes and foams. He had hoped the rhythmic sounds would act as a calming agent, a gateway to the core of her energy, yet that does not seem to be the case. In this heightened state, he can easily hear every creak, every shuffle as she fidgets in place. “You are distracted,” he says without opening his eyes. “You must concentrate. Empty your mind. Focus.” And she tries, she really does, but she has not yet grasped the true meaning of this deceptively simple practice. Even without looking, he knows she is tense. He says nothing else; it will take more than just a verbal admonishment to correct the jumble in her head. When it comes to clearing away her mind, she must discover that on her own.

When one grows as old as he is, it becomes harder and harder to find that inner peace. There are so many outside forces constantly threatening his composure. Even just one errant thought can be an unnecessary danger. But he cannot imagine one so young would be cognizant enough to understand this sort of worldliness, at least not yet.

He blinks his eyes open when he hears a strange sound.

The Pekoyama child is crying.

Her shoulders shake with the force of her sobs. She has her head bowed down, but those are unmistakable tears streaming down her face.

Bennosuke sighs. “Go clean yourself up. Come back and we will start again.”

 

 

 

The days become shorter and the nights become longer. More and more leaves fall off the branches, blanketing the ground with a carpet of muted colors that crunch underfoot.

How long has she been here, she wonders.

She thinks of the story of the maiden trapped serving a fearsome dragon for the entirety of her life. She prays everyday and every night for a hero to come to her rescue. And then she is saved by the prince who destroys the beast holding her captive. She thinks of the story and she thinks of where she is now and she tries to reconcile the two images.

Training is fatiguing, an unwanted undertaking that greets her every morning. It’s funny. She hasn’t always felt this way about swordsmanship, something she once considered fantastical and majestic. Back at the estate, sometimes she and Fuyuhiko would play pretend sword-fighting while wielding sticks or strips of cardboard. Fuyuhiko would stare at her standing there with her makeshift sword and say she looked just like a noble samurai from his favorite storybooks.

This, however, is nothing like pretend.

Her teacher scolds her if she does not get something right. Though he does not scold her as much as Inoue-san would, she does what she can to ensure he won’t scold her again, even if they are halfhearted attempts. Her hands no longer feel like her own. Everything she does she must envision slicing through flesh and bone. Sometimes she can actually see them before her, the spray of blood as she cuts down her invisible enemies. It makes her ill. If only she could be so lucky to be saved by a hero like in the stories.

She learns the hard way that heroes like that do not exist, and no one is coming to save her.

 

 

 

31 days have passed. The child is better, but she is still not enough.

At the very least she is going through the motions—the stances and the maneuvers—but her footwork is sloppy, scattered. Her downward cuts are inconsistent. He wishes she were half as devoted to her swordsmanship as she is to her chores. The cleaning she takes to like a blessing, an escape from his teachings of _ka_ _ta_ and _ka_ _mae_ and _giri._ In that regard, she is surprisingly diligent, sweeping and scrubbing down the cabin without complaint. If she used that diligence elsewhere, she could become something great.

Bennosuke sighs. In some absurd way, he supposes he should feel offended, but he doesn’t. He only feels sadness. Pity, perhaps. Not necessarily disappointment, but there’s an unmistakable upset that clinches at his nerves.

His first thought is to believe that the child is a lost cause, but that cannot be correct. Kenichi Kuzuryuu is many things but he is not absentminded; he would never hand him a student he thought was beyond his help, and even Bennosuke doesn’t truly believe it. There is something in her, he thinks, something special that has yet to be drawn out. She does not see it in herself (and if she does, she keeps it safely under lock and key). He cannot draw it out if he does not know where it lies.

He thinks back to the first day, the way her wide eyes met his in a silent plea. _No, says her heart._

He places his hand on her bamboo sword and stills it.

“Kenichi Kuzuryuu is a very powerful man. Under no circumstances will he accept failure. He will _kill_ you if you disappoint him. Do you understand?” He's met with silence. Her deep red eyes are turned to the ground as though she doesn’t dare to enter this reality, and deep in Bennosuke’s chest, he feels a tugging on his heart like turning a blind eye to a terrible accident. “I am trying to help you,” he presses.

She makes no response.

 

 

 

Dreams become her greatest escape. At night she dreams of running through sunflower fields hand-in-hand with Fuyuhiko. The sunflowers are her favorite because they remind her of the boy's eyes. It's summertime and they're going to celebrate their birthdays. She doesn’t get to celebrate her birthday on the actual day of her birth (the last day of June, that’s what she remembers), but she doesn’t mind. Fuyuhiko says he’s glad to share his birthday celebration, because then it’s twice the happiness he gets to experience with her.

They find a patch of sunflowers stretching taller than the two of them combined. Inoue-san warns them not to get their yukatas dirty, but they cannot resist racing through the flowers until pollen and soil cling to their clothes. Fuyuhiko presses his nose to the center of a sunflower and inhales deeply. He ends up sneezing so much his eyes water and his nose goes red, and she laughs so hard she can hardly breathe.

 

 

 

On the 42nd day, he takes her out fishing.

There’s a river nearby and they may be able to catch some ayu to grill for dinner. The Pekoyama child's appetite is spotty at best; some days she will clean her rice bowl and maybe one of the side dishes, and other days she will hardly touch anything on her plate. Protein is hard to keep when they are without electricity and proper refrigeration. A healthy and balanced meal may be just what she needs to refocus on her training. (He admits he is grasping at straws, but he is running out of options.)

It's been many years since he's been ayu fishing, but he remembers the motions as well as if his father were standing beside him right now telling him how to properly tie off the line.

“Do you like grilled ayu?” he asks her.

“Yes. Me and Fuuchan have it during the summer, sometimes.”

Bennosuke cocks an interested brow. It's the first he's heard her mention the heir to the Kuzuryuu clan. Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu. He'd been the target of the attempted Matsuba clan kidnapping. It's his understanding that it was the girl's fault they’d been taken in the first place.

Regardless, the girl speaks of her friend with an understated sort of affection—a light shining in her eyes and a faint smile upon her lips—and he realizes that this is perhaps the happiest he’s ever seen her before. She doesn’t smile much over mealtimes, and she certainly never smiles when they are training.

“It is nearing the end of the season. There won’t be many ayu left in the river, but we may get lucky.”

He wades knee-deep in the frigid water, pants hiked up around his thighs. He shows her the decoy fish, the importance of keeping it alive enough to swim, though in a weakened state. She asks why they don’t just eat that one, but he tells her that using this one ayu will bring in many more. The decoy acts as bait, drawing in its territorial brethren and ensnaring them with the hooks lined along its belly when they attack. Even an ayu at the end of its life has its uses, perhaps more than it realizes. He demonstrates, dropping the decoy carefully into the water. It takes a bit of waiting but soon he feels a quivering tug on the end of his line. He reels it in carefully—mindful of dropping their catch—and scoops it up in his fishing net. He drops it into a wooden bucket filled with river water.

“We keep them alive until we are ready to begin cooking. They taste best when fresh. Out here, the river is cleaner, so they will taste even better. Ayu are small, so we must skewer them whole: head, tail, and all.”

At that she makes a face, and it's the first expression he’s seen from her that he would describe as _comical_ _._ He can’t help himself; he bursts out laughing.

“You act just like my daughter did,” he laughs.

She blinks. He sees the change in her expression as he reintroduces the decoy to the water, the curious way she looks at him like she’s seeing a man who was once a father and not just a weathered old swordsman.

“What’s her name?” she asks.

“Tomoe. She passed away a long time ago.”

Her shoulders wilt a bit. “Oh…” she says. Clearly she wasn’t expecting that.

“She was very sick. I didn’t have the money to afford the medicine she needed.”

Her gaze lowers to some spot in the river. He’s not sure if she’s old enough to understand what he means. She is bright for her age, and she certainly understands the concept of death, but she may not yet be aware enough to know that some of the world’s deadliest enemies lie inside their bodies where swords and guns make no difference.

The child traces her fingers through the dirt where she’s squatted near the bank. “Do you miss her?” she asks.

He looks up to the sky and considers his answer. There’s not a day goes by that he doesn’t think about his late daughter, how she would’ve grown up and what she would’ve become. If she would’ve become a swordsman like him, or perhaps forged her own path. Perhaps she would have married and had offspring of her own, and then he would have had many rosy-faced grandchildren to teach how to fish.

“Yes,” he answers honestly. “But it gets easier to deal with everyday.”

He hands her the rod and shows her how to hold it to keep it upright. Miraculously, she manages to snag a fish on her line and he helps her reel it in. She gasps, excited, upon seeing the fish flopping about in the net. He deposits their latest catch into the bucket.

They catch three ayu in total, two for him and one for her. He grills them up by a warm outdoor fire while she crouches nearby and watches the flames. She bites into her skewer more ravenously than he expects, and in her eyes he sees the reflections of a child remembering the splendors of summertime.

 

 

 

She dreams of a winter landscape outside her window. (By all accounts, it doesn't make sense. It never snows this heavily in Kobe, but the visions come to her like they've always belonged and so she does not question it.) As she rushes to the window, she sees her favorite person in the whole world already waiting for her outside. Fuyuhiko waves and calls for her to come and play. She grabs her coat and boots and hurries out to join him.

They make snow rabbits like they see on TV. Evergreen leaves for ears and two red berries for eyes. Fuyuhiko looks especially proud of his creation as he beckons her over.

“Peko-chan, look! It looks just like you!” He points to his completed snow rabbit and then lightly touches one of her braids.

She supposes she does see the resemblance. The color of her hair like the snow. The same red eyes. Her braids look like drooping bunny ears. Even though snow rabbits are no where near as soft as the real thing, she likes the comparison.

He fiddles with one of the evergreen leaves they had plucked off a nandina bush. “You’re like a snow rabbit, and snow rabbits use these leaves. Mom says nandina plants are for good luck. So as long as you stay by my side, you’ll be my good luck charm, right?”

She smiles, once again marveling at the extent of Fuyuhiko’s big heart. Even in the cold of winter, this little boy always knows how to warm her to the core.

 

 

 

Bennosuke sits on the edge of his bed, whittling away at a long beam of wood. He stares out the window. The Pekoyama child is sitting at the base of a tree, arms around her knees. Her bamboo sword lies forgotten by her side.

She’s supposed to be practicing her strikes.

50 days have passed and the Pekoyama child is nowhere near the level that would satisfy the boss. If she does not learn in time, he wonders if he would be the one ordered to execute the child in the middle of the woods. Perhaps the both of them would be ordered to death for his equal part in her failure. Kenichi Kuzuryuu has all the resources in the world to ensure their disappearances. It would be swift. There's not enough time to waste on prolonging the deaths of an orphan and an aging old man. All because she could not bend into the tool they wanted her to be, a life filled with obedience and servility.

Perhaps death may be the better choice for her after-all.

Bennosuke sighs, staring down at the featureless face of his whittling work. “There may be no use for you in the end,” he muses.

He hits a hard knot in the wood with his knife and drops it. He curses. Even as a master swordsman, his hands aren’t what they used to be. (He knows he is only a fraction of his younger self. That is why he became a teacher.)

He looks to the window again.

She thinks he doesn’t notice when she wakes up in the night whimpering. He’s spent years battling his own nightmares to know what they look like at a glance, but he never thought he’d see them manifest in one so young. He wonders what Kenichi Kuzuryuu would think if he found out his tool was sniveling just like any human child. Punishment, surely. Under any other circumstances, the child would have grown up like a normal little girl, playing with her friends, watching too much television, and gushing over sweets.

If his daughter were alive today, surely she would’ve encouraged a similar development. Tomoe was a bright and happy girl before being confined to the prison of her bed for the last two years of her life. He still remembers her final moments as fresh as the day they happened. He remembers the way she stared up at him as he sat by her bed with her little fingers clutched between his own and asked what was going to happen to her if she did not wake up the next morning.

He sets his knife aside.

Bennosuke decides that day. No matter what happens to him, no matter the consequences, he does not want the Pekoyama child to die.

He places his whittling work down and steps outside.

She is still sitting at the base of the tree, knees drawn up to her chest. With an exaggerated groan, he drops down beside her and settles back against the bark, hands tucked in his sleeves.

“You miss home, don’t you?”

She nods.

“I promise you, you will return again, but you need to listen to me. You need to become what Kenichi Kuzuryuu wants you to be to see your friend again.”

Her bottom lip quivers as she replies, “I don’t want to kill anybody.”

“But you killed three men,” he presses. (He had been one of the men called in to investigate the children's kidnappers, their bodies left to rot in the mountains. He could hardly believe the masterful cuts on the throats of three seasoned Matsuba family members were done by a single seven-year-old girl. That had been part of the reason why he had agreed to teach her.)

She shrinks back into her arms, and he is at once reminded that this is a child he is dealing with. A little girl. Not a yakuza despite outside forces telling him and her otherwise.

“I had to,” she says.

“Why?”

“If… If I didn’t… Fuuchan was going to die…” The arms around her knees tense.

That’s when he realizes: this is what she’s been keeping firmly held to her breast. It is about the boy. It has always been about the boy. He feels foolish for not seeing it sooner.

“Do you ever want something like that to happen to him again?” he asks.

She looks up at him sharply, as if she hadn’t even considered that could ever be a possibility, as if she’s remembering something she had tried so hard to forget. “No.”

“Your destiny is set in stone. You cannot change it. But the boy… The Kuzuryuu clan has many enemies. What happened in the mountains… That won’t be the last time someone tries to hurt him. They’ll come back, and they’ll try again. He needs somebody to protect him. He needs someone by his side.”

She looks at him dead on like she is appraising the validity in his words. He does not let his gaze waver.

“Do it for him.”

Slowly, her little hand reaches out and curls around the handle of the sword.

 

 

 

Her dreams that night are strange and disjointed. Fuyuhiko is crying and she doesn’t know why.

“Peko, don’t go,” he sobs, desperately clutching onto her sleeve.

She doesn’t understand. Is she going somewhere? (And when did he start calling her just Peko?) Over his shoulder, she can see the tall swaying grass of their favorite field, but off in the distance there’s a dark unknown void like nothing she’s ever seen before. She feels a draw to it, a pull she can’t place, calling to her from the darkness. “I think I have to,” she says, gazing into the inky depths.

Fuyuhiko cries harder, sobbing into her shoulder. “Please! Don’t go! I need you!” She's seen him cry before, but never like this, staining her kimono with snot and tears.

He’s so sad. So desperate. Normally she would do anything to dry away his tears, but instead she finds herself plucking his fingers off her sleeve and pushing his hands back. It’s like her body is moving on its own, overriding what she _wants_ to do with what she _needs_ to do. Her attention is still on the darkness like a moth drawn to a flame. Fuyuhiko reaches out for her, tries to catch hold again but she keeps him at bay. Her feet move automatically, carrying her closer to the empty abyss. Fuyuhiko stays behind, voice growing fainter. The darkness pulls her in more and more and he keeps begging her to stay.

The darkness embraces her, wraps her up in its cold tendrils like a long-lost friend.

Is this what it feels like to have a family?

The last thing she hears is Fuyuhiko calling out her name.

 

 

 

The change in the Pekoyama child is like night and day.

It is more than what she does, but he cannot deny that helps. She rises with the sun and eats every bite of her breakfast, down to the last grain. She flies through her chores, not as a means of escape from her duties, but to return to her training all that much quicker. It's as though she is making up for lost time, the countless days and weeks spent crying into her bedsheets.

But it is her attitude, her determination, that truly brings her home. When she meets him outside, she stands at the ready, bamboo sword in her hands. She is open and free, a blank slate for him to chisel in his image.

“Do what I do,” he instructs.

He performs a quick series of moves, pivoting on his feet and slicing through the air. It is nothing too difficult though it is something she has yet to master.

She mimics his position and recites the maneuver with flawless ease. Like she was always meant for this purpose alone. He marvels at how this fierce warrior-in-the-making could possibly be one in the same with the girl who trembled at the thought of murder. She is only seven years old and yet she moves with the grace of a trained swordsman. A masterful strike here, a perfect cut there. He has her performing more and more drills, each more difficult than the last. She listens to his instructions and watches his demonstrations with clearly defined focus. At times he must step in to correct her posture or stance, but whatever he has to tell her, he never has to tell her twice.

“Remember your purpose. Remember who you’re doing this for.”

“Fuuchan,” she whispers under her breath.

He shakes his head. “No. You must remember your place. He is the sixth-generation heir to the largest yakuza syndicate in Japan. You are a tool serving your master. Never forget that.”

She drops her sword to her side and takes a deep breath, and for a second, he thinks he can see the exact moment when she rearranges the pieces in her mind into a different picture, one that will keep her alive.

“I understand,” she says.

“Good. Then. Once again.”

She nods and repeats the maneuvers once more and her resolve is so palpable he could cut it with a knife. She truly is a natural.

A natural-born killer.

 

 

 

Meditation, she finds, is something she enjoys. It is freeing, being able to rid herself of everything that makes her weak. Left hand over right, thumbs tip to tip. The focus of energy. When she closes her eyes, she finds that space within herself that nobody else can touch but her.

“Put away your anger. Show no fear, no worry,” her teacher instructs. “If you are a tool, then you cannot feel. Lock it all away where it will never make you vulnerable. When your opponent reeks of emotion, that is when you strike. You can see what they cannot.”

She buries the memories, the daydreams, the useless longing, she won't be needing them, because every emotion she feels is one more opening for her opponent to exploit.

Fuyuhiko—no—the young master needs her. He _needs_ her to protect him. She may not be able to partake in their carefree games anymore, but she can be the observant watcher, the eyes on his back that keep him safe. She’s not the one to be rescued; she’s the one that does the rescuing.

Anxieties melt away into nothingness. Even in the darkness she can see, hear, _sense_ everything all at once. The wind whistling through the trees. The river burbling in the distance. A single leaf falling from its branch. She’s empty. Clear. Never before has the world made so much sense.

She can feel the presence of a crow pecking at the base of a tree nearby. Briefly, she opens her eyes and stares it down. The crow stops what it’s doing and turns, beady black eyes staring into her. It ruffles up its feather like it’s trying to intimate a predator. When it sees she won’t back down, it screeches once and flies away.

She closes her eyes again.

Never again will she be the reason the young master comes to harm.

 

 

 

Her dreams become nothing more than pitch black voids.

The sunflower fields and winter hills no longer invade her dreams. Neither do the snow rabbits and apple trees. Distractions. Noise. Silly games that she's outgrown. The young master especially no longer visits her dreams, and that’s good. He doesn’t belong there. Not where she is vulnerable. He belongs out in the sun, with the wildflowers, chasing the wind and catching fireflies.

She cannot keep him selfishly locked up in her head. He’s not like her, a girl fated to the darkness. He deserves to be free. He’s going to grow up and become the next head of the Kuzuryuu clan. He’ll never have to worry a day in his life. He’ll have a family and money and power and anything else he could ever ask for. Most of all, he’ll live for a long time to come.

She’ll ensure that future for him.

 

 

 

The days pass on. She practices and hones her skills until ugly blisters form on her palms and still she presses forward. In place of her practice sword, her teacher gives her a sharpened steel blade.

Swordsmanship is like a dance, a secret language that translates itself through her body. Stance wide, body lowered, elbows in. _Jodan, chudan, gedan, hasso, waki._ Light steps, precise moves. Strong arms, balanced hands. On and on and on. She draws her blade with lightning quick reflexes. She makes perfect straight cuts into stalks of bamboo. _(The same density as human bone,_ her teacher says.) The techniques come to her easily, flowing from her fingertips all the way down to her feet, and it occurs to her that she was born for this reason alone. This path was paved specifically for her, and now that she knows it, she will follow it gladly. There is no use in fighting it when it feels as natural as breathing. _This is what you are. This is what you were always meant to be._ Once again, Master Kuzuryuu was right. Master Kuzuryuu is always right.

Her teacher stands before a scattering of ten straw dummies spiked into the ground. She keeps them in her sights as he throws wooden targets at her, one after another. She slices each one down with buttery smooth precision. They start as large blocks of lumber almost the size of her fist, but they get progressively smaller until he’s left throwing little wood pellets. (The pellets, she sees, are about the same size as a bullet.) She doesn’t miss cutting a single one.

“Keep your eyes forward. Good,” he praises when she effortlessly slices three consecutive pellets as if they were nothing more than pesky flies.

She's never known this feeling before, this sense of belonging. It’s a feeling she’s never found in the touch of a mother, nor the hand of a father. She is cold like steel, hardened like a blade. Though her body may be flesh and blood, at the core, she is a machine.

_Tools have no will of their own. Tools are not human. Tools cannot be murderers. One day, he’ll ask you to kill for him. Prepare for that day. Stare it in the eye and don't back down. Be strong. Be useful. Like he needs you to be._

_Exist for him and him alone._

She says the words over and over again in her head, repeats them like a mantra. She burns it into memory until it’s branded behind her eyelids. She thinks of angry, hulking monsters. She thinks of dagger-sharp teeth and blood-red claws. She thinks of these monsters threatening to take away a teary-eyed little boy and her resolve is clear.

“Now! Strike now!”

All her senses snap to attention. She charges forward with a long, feral yell and _slashes,_ _one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten,_ _sees the blood, deep crimson_ _splashing_ _on her cheek—_

—Ten straw dummy heads fall to the ground.

She flicks her sword to the side like she’s shaking the blood off her blade. Slowly, she returns her sword to her sheathe and stares down at her open palm. Still clean. Not a shred of hesitation. (She’s killed before, after-all.)

Without flinching, she unsheathes her sword again, turns, and swipes. The clashing of metal against metal rings through the trees as she stops her teacher’s blade just inches from her face. He stares at her with an indescribable look. She stares back blankly.

_First lesson. Never let your guard down._

Her teacher lowers his sword and nods. “That's enough for today,” he says. “We’ll pick this up in the morning.”

Peko nods and bows.

(She'll give up her life so the young master can keep his.)

 

 

 

On the 89th day, Bennosuke presents to her an emerald green sword bag emblazoned with a dragon: a fitting creature for a girl who strikes with the greatest fighting spirit he's ever seen.

“This is a part of you now. Carry it with you always so that you never forget your place in the world.”

She handles it delicately like she’s never held anything so precious. Her bamboo sword fits snugly inside. (Beneath the bamboo, steel awaits. For her, death will always be close at hand.) She straps it over her shoulder—a perfect fit—and bows deeply at the waist. “Thank you, _shisho_ _u_ _.”_

He freezes.

On the surface, it's a perfectly innocuous title—appropriate, even—but not once in 89 days has she addressed him as such, not once. _This is her life now,_ he thinks, a series of titles and names and honorifics all categorized to be more important than hers.

But what does this mean for him? What place does he serve in this farcical arrangement? His directions were clear. Teach her how to wield a sword. Mold her into a weapon. Nothing more, but now? Could it be… Does he have a _responsibility_ over the child? Something that goes further than merely teacher and student? The thought alone fills him with an understated dread, a feeling that starts in the pit of his stomach and spiders out to his fingertips. _Shisho_ _u_ _._ Not _sensei. Shisho_ _u_ _._

He swallows the lump stuck in his throat.

Unsure what else to do, he settles for a nod.

“Rest up. Tomorrow is a big day.”

 

 

 

Kenichi Kuzuryuu arrives right on time.

He comes in an armored sedan, a bit much for the middle of the mountains, but with the yakuza, one can never be too careful.

Bennosuke stands in front of the cabin door, hands formally clasped behind his back. Kenichi steps up to him.

“She is ready,” says Bennosuke.

He steps aside so that Kenichi can enter.

The Pekoyama child kneels in the middle of the cabin, head bowed, sword laid before her. Kenichi looms over her.

“Who are you?” he demands.

“I am nobody,” she answers seamlessly. “I am but my young master's property. I have no will of my own. If my young master intends to kill, then I must be his sword. If he is attacked, then I must defend him as his shield. As long as he has need for me, then I shall be at his side. That is my duty as a tool.”

“Will you give up your life to ensure his safety?”

“Yes, master.”

“Do you understand that you are living on borrowed time?”

“Yes, master.”

He looks back to Bennosuke, his face an impassable mask. For a second Bennosuke fears the worst: that she is too weak, or too timid, that she is still not good enough. He has failed and the child will be executed for his negligence. He tries not to wither beneath the boss’s gaze, tries not to show that their fate hangs on this moment.

After what seems like hours, Kenichi gestures with a wag of his chin. “Take her to the car.”

 

 

 

The leftover supplies from the cabin have been packed up in their boxes. Bennosuke hauls them onto his truck one by one while Kenichi smokes a cigarette.

“This is only the beginning,” Kenichi says. “You’ll need to keep watch over her to make sure she doesn’t step out of line.”

Bennosuke nods, tightening the twine wrappings around a box filled with pots and pans. He hisses suddenly, nearly dropping the box. There’s a twine burn on his palm from pulling just a little too hard. He rubs at the burn with his thumb to soothe the pain. “She will serve you well. She is very talented. It seems true Pekoyama blood flows through her after-all.”

Kenichi laughs shortly, a curt sort of sound. “The Pekoyama family was never a problem.”

Bennosuke pauses, idly scratching at the twine burn.

“What if she finds out? About them,” he asks cautiously.

He remembers the Pekoyama clan as well as the back of his eyelids, a dwindling family of swordsmen blackmailed into giving up their newborn daughter and never speaking a word of it. He remembers the look of anguish on the child's mother's face as he forced her to her knees and held a sword to her throat. He remembers Kenichi Kuzuryuu holding the newborn with a strange sort of tenderness as he taunted the Pekoyama family over how their baby girl and heirloom sword bag would be satisfactory compensation for their unpaid debts. He remembers the way the child's mother cursed the entire Kuzuryuu clan, swearing that someday her stolen daughter would be the cause for the clan’s ruination.

Kenichi eyes him warily as he takes a long drag of his cigarette. His words come out in a fog of smoke. “I don't remember the girl’s family being any of your concern.”

Bennosuke stiffens.

(He’s out of line. He knows it. A one-way ticket to a bullet in the head. Never before has he dared to question the Kuzuryuu clan kingpin.)

Instead of filling him with lead, Kenichi looks back to the sedan where the Pekoyama child is waiting. “She won't find out,” he says evenly. He flicks his cigarette onto the dirt and stubs it out beneath his shoe. “And if she ever does, it won't matter by then.”

He heads for the car, leaving Bennosuke to pack up the rest.

Not for the first time, he wonders what sort of monster he has to be to teach a child that her existence hinges on her talent, that she is worthwhile only so long as she is useful.

He has to quell his mind with empty placations before they threaten to overtake his good conscience. The girl is alive and she has a purpose; that’s what matters. Kenichi Kuzuryuu will not dispose of her so easily so long as she sticks to her training. She'll become their greatest hitman yet, perhaps even the greatest one ever. As long as she knows how to defend herself, she'll live for many years to come. There’s no one in the world who could change her fate.

(But the Kuzuryuu boy is an anomaly, an unpredictable variable in a complex equation. He's unsure whether the boy is truly something special or if the girl’s sentiments are merely the product of a child's naïve mind. There's no doubt in his mind that the Pekoyama child would give up her life for that boy, but how far will that loyalty reach?)

As he packs the last of the crates onto the truck bed, he feels something crinkling in his pocket. He pulls it out and unfolds it. It’s the paper she’d written on his first day here. _Peko_ _Pekoyama_ _._ The name of the girl who became a tool.

He takes one last look at the little girl sitting in the back of the car, hands in her lap, dull eyes fixated on the floor.

He can only hope he made the right choice.

 

 

 

Six years later, Peko swears she is nothing but a sword, a shield, a cog in a machine, but as she walks five paces behind her young master on his way home from school, she carries _I don’t need a tool_ like a splinter embedded in her heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments/kudos are greatly appreciated.
> 
> If you liked what you read, please consider following me on my tumblr for future stories, artwork, and more. Check it out @ thewildwilds.tumblr.com


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